Cold Case Memories
by Angeladex
Summary: Frequency (2000) and The Lady in White (1988) Crossover. John Sullivan gets a lead on a cold case when Naval divers find the remains of what they think might be one of the victims of the Cliffside Killer from the late 50s. He manages to get an interview with one of the Killer's victims; one Franklin T. Scarlatti. Sometimes things like this...stay with you. Even 40 years later.


The day had already been a long one at 12:15 when John Francis Sullivan hung up the telephone at his desk, sighing and standing to get some coffee. His current case was that of a serial killer from the late fifties, allegedly closed in 1962 when he was caught trying to throw his would-be victim off a cliff, only to fall off himself.

The local precinct—a little small-towny place called Willowford Falls, down by Rochester—had closed the case rather quickly, and John had been having a hard time getting information on it. The files hadn't digitized well, and trying to figure out the information from the physical case report, now over 40 years old and having sustained water damage besides, in an archival flood in 1996, had proved damn near impossible.

And it wouldn't even matter, but the remains of a child had been found by a Naval diver, potentially tied to the case; this "Cliffside Killer" had disposed of his victims by throwing them off the cliff, and a few of the bodies had never been found.

The only lucky break John had – and he'd take it, gladly – had been the willingness of that last survivor to help him out; he lived out-of-state, now, but had said on the phone that his family still lived in Willowford Falls, and it was only about an hour away from the city proper. He'd just arrived.

John had been lucky to retain the meeting, in all honesty: the precinct had been exploding with activity since the pandemonium that had ensued after the destruction of the twin towers, with airport security at an all-time high, even when it wasn't international travel. The meeting was finally happening, and John would be able to question him, and hopefully verify the identity of the child they'd found, and wrap this back up to be a cold case, where it belonged.

His thermos refilled, John gave the case file another glance; just an overview. He'd read it several times. Franklin T. Scarlatti had been nine years old when the Cliffside Killer had targeted him, which made him ten years older than John himself. The name had looked familiar when John first read it, and he'd found out it was the name of a well-established author. He lived in Los Angeles with his family, now, and wrote for a largely thriller/mystery audience, of which John didn't consider himself a part. (Ma had teased him that he was jaded from living out real mysteries and thrillers from being a cop, and his wife Samantha agreed.)

He came through the door that divided his department from the front desk of the precinct, and was able to spot the man almost immediately; he looked just like the photo he put on the backs of his books.

John walked right up to the man. "Franklin Scarlatti?"

The man nodded. "I'm here for a meeting with Detective…Sullivan?"

John smiled. "That's me. You're in the right place."

The man stood, and took John's offered hand to shake. He was tall and thin, with a prominent Italian nose, thick eyebrows, and black, slightly unkempt hair with a few streaks of grey. "Just calling me Frank is fine."

John offered a warm chuckle. "Frank's my dad's name." (He remembered, in another lifetime, having to use past tense. _Frank _was_ my Dad's name_. He sure liked this way better.)

"You don't say? My grandparents got to name my brother Geno, but my Ma got to name me. Franklin for her father; the story goes he was named after Benjamin Franklin."

"My dad's real name was Francis. He was a firefighter for 40 years, and now he's retired. Suits him just fine. Spoils my kids rotten."

"You have children?"

"A boy, he's six, and a little girl, she's just eighteen months this December."

As they chatted, John led him back to an empty office for the interview, figuring it would be better than an interrogation room, though neater than doing it at John's desk.

They settled comfortably; John pulled out a legal pad and the case file, and Frank held his coat over his arm in a nervous sort of body language that being in a police precinct usually caused in people.

Talking to Frank Scarlatti was easy, for which John was grateful. He talked about his own family, and the charms of California, and his books, and John replied with questions about the cost of living, whether palm trees were really all that great, and comparing the sandy beach of the Pacific Ocean with the rockier coasts of the Eastern Seaboard.

"I'm not much of a fan of the cliffsides of this coast to be honest, Detective," Frank said slowly.

John winced. "Sorry. I…probably wouldn't be either."

Which tenuously bridged the conversation to the segue they'd been looking for.

"Really…I'm not sure I'll be of much help," Frank said carefully. He opened his posture, then; coat on his lap, hands out: "Don't misunderstand, I'm happy to help," he said apologetically. "It's just…this case was closed thirty-something years ago. And… I hadn't thought there would be pressing need to revisit it."

"And there wouldn't be," John assured him. "Except that we've found evidence that may connect to the case."

"Evidence?" Frank questioned, and John shifted gears. This was officially police business.

"Remains," John admitted. "A child."

"Oh. I see," and suddenly Frank's face seemed to bear no resemblance to the cheerful man who loved palm trees enough that he wanted to grow them himself. "And they think it's…"

"-one of his, yeah," John answered the same time Frank finished:

"…Phil's."

"Oh," they said in unison, and John made a mental note. Frank had called the killer 'Phil.' And that was his name, to be sure, but…why would Frank call him by his name?"

John stayed quiet, inviting Frank to fill the silence however he saw fit. This was the difference between an interrogation and an interview: He was allowed to be content to let Frank set the tone of the conversation.

"Well…what do you want to know?" Frank asked, then, and John kept his face neutral, but pleasant.

"How about we start with what you remember about the case? Anything might be helpful."

Frank's eyes drifted down to the desk, eyeballing the file, and he took a deep breath, exhaling with a dramatic puff of his cheeks. "I mean…I was…nine? God. Nine years old. When this all happened. So you understand…this is thirty years after the fact –"

"If you'll excuse my saying so, there are things that you might remember that no one else will. Things you remember that might not have made it into the report. Any information could help us out."

Frank grimaced. "You say that like it's…an easy thing, Detective," he murmured.

John ducked his head, seeking to make eye-contact with Frank. "I say it from experience," he said seriously. "1969? I was six years old, and a man broke into our home. I remember him holding me in front of him as a hostage, so my dad wouldn't shoot him. I remember specific details like it happened yesterday. Things they didn't mention in the report. I remember how his hair was cut, I remember the pattern on the buttons of his jacket, I remember he called me 'Little Chief,' like my dad did, to try and make me cooperate."

God, he remembered more than just those things, too. He remembered the hitch in his mother's voice, when she saw him in her doorway and said his name. When he'd interrupted this monster _on top of her in her bed_. He remembered how his dad's hand didn't shake, pointing the rifle. The glint of handcuffs dangling from one of his wrists.

"Something about these things…sticks with you," he finished, leaving out the other things.

Franklin was looking at him, now, and nodding so softly, like he didn't realize he was doing it, but agreed with his soul.

"There are certain things," he said presently, after a beat of silence, "There's a song by, um, Bing Crosby. It was…it was Phil's favorite song. I…I don't care for it, at all. I don't…I don't keep candles, I never let my children learn piano…and it's because of that night."

John waited again, and after nearly a minute, he broke the silence. "Would you mind walking me through it? Just…take your time. Let me know if it gets too hard. We can take a break whenever you want. You're helping us, you know? You call the shots."

Frank nodded slowly. "It was…it was Halloween when it all started. Halloween night. I had…I'd gotten locked in the cloakroom of my school."

-o-

AUTHORS NOTE

I've been giving thought to crossovers, and I've wanted to see this one done, so I had to do it myself. It's like how I can publish stories on here that no one reads: I just want to read them, so I write them for me, if for no one else.

There'll probably be one or two more chapters of this, just to get it out of my head. I had the thought I'd like to see this crossover, so I went to work.


End file.
